


the tightrope it bends and nobody knows where it ends

by vanilla_alia (ashheaps)



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: erm bastardization of real life events? Isn't that implied...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 01:24:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashheaps/pseuds/vanilla_alia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"that being said, i have decided to actually go to uganda with Invisible Children in july, actually the whole band is going to go. i feel like we wont understand the situation and have our hearts wrapped around it until we see it first hand." -pete wentz</p>
            </blockquote>





	the tightrope it bends and nobody knows where it ends

**Author's Note:**

> Reposting a fic from LJ onto here for archiving purposes. IMAGINE THAT. 
> 
> (Did Pete actually say this quote??? I googled it and....just found this fic. *shrug*)

Entebbe could pass for any other airport and God knows they’ve been in enough airports to compare this one to the rest. It’s late at night, so there are few people roaming around the small but pleasant terminal and they’re all just following each other in their group of eight. Joe keeps pausing and dropping back a few feet, wincing but hitching his backpack higher on his shoulder and carrying on regardless. He hasn’t felt spectacular since the round of malaria pills they all began taking nine days prior and all he’s really looking forward to is a faucet and a bed.

Patrick walks beside Joe, his internal time clock all kinds of whacked, stopping when he does and asking “you okay?” every thirty or so steps. Joe nods wearily but smiles nonetheless, following Pete and Andy who are commandeering their group with the smiling tour guide who met them at the foot of the aircraft stairs. He brightly introduced himself as Moses and Patrick could immediately tell that Pete had a thousand questions on the front of his mind.

They clamber into the Kampala Sheraton after a short minibus ride and Pete barely has enough energy to wrap his arms around Patrick before they fall asleep, freshly showered and full of Dramamine.

 

+

 

Pete converses with a local seller at the Owino market the next morning, feeling completely out of his element and jetlagged. The shop operator is barely over seventeen, speaks flawless English and has the whitest teeth Pete’s ever seen. Pete asks about a set of four paintings, Ugandan wildlife on burlap canvas, and learns that the boy paints them all meticulously on his own. He gives Pete a price and Pete shells double the currency the boy asks for, crisp American dollars that make Pete feel almost filthy, and the boy takes the money into his dark hands carefully. He counts out a handful of shillings and returns them to Pete with one hand, offers the four paintings with the other. Pete takes just the paintings and smiles at the boy, thanking him.

A dark brown gorilla is frozen with a hand over his face in the first painting and the other three follow the same sort of motif. Pete clutches them tightly in his hand the rest of the way through the market, too entranced to look for anything else, following the broad of Patrick’s shoulders through the pleasantly pressing crowd, having to dodge pairs of men touching hands and speaking animatedly around him.

 

+

 

“I don’t need them,” Pete has always said, “I could stop if I wanted to.” And for better or for worse, for the five days they’re there, he does.

 

+

 

Joe is surprisingly skilled with the point-and-shoot Canon he’s been toting around all tour without anyone else noticing. He’s just not the type for sentimentality is all. Pete flicks through the forty or so pictures Joe has managed by their dinner in a local hole-in-the-wall restaurant while they wait for the surprise array of dishes Moses had ordered for the table. 

The walls are a deep shade of crimson brick, appearing a velvet black in the dusk. At the end of the bench, sideways against the wall, Patrick tries to file the place in his memory for later, with its open fire pit and noticeably dustless floors. Their small group even looks funny in the restaurant, an island of white skin in the midst of locals—all men. 

A few of the men play pool on the other side of the small space, trading sticks for every shot and drinking the same brand of bottled beer. Patrick feels like the easy atmosphere of it shouldn’t be a surprise. He glances down the table and sees that one of the pool-playing men has sought a discussion partner and is indulging Andy in an incredibly intellectual parlay on what sounds like American politics. The man wants Andy to have a beer but doesn’t seem to understand why not.

Shoulders slouched and ass numbing a bit on the wooden backless bench, Pete comes across a picture of himself and Patrick outside of the Kasubi tombs; their skin color sets them apart from the shadow of the reedy thatched dome. 

Their faces are open, viewing the site with wide eyes, trying to drink it all in. Pete says as much to Joe, who smiles, almost embarrassed, and nods, uncapping his water bottle.

 

+

 

They meet in the lobby in the grey of the pre-sunrise atmosphere. Uniformed hotel staff persons are bustling about with half-lidded eyes and Moses is smiling brightly still, his white teeth nearly glimmering. They’ve all dressed fairly neutral—blue jeans and solid color t-shirts with similarly simple sweatshirts. Moses said no shorts and they comply. They grab breakfast in the hotel and pile into the minibus under Moses’ guidance, sun rising with a brilliant orange between buildings. 

The bus ride is long and wild. Moses tries to keep it smooth for Joe’s sake since he’s quelched any kind of protest from his body in favor of following through with their mission for today. Pete sits at the window, Patrick pressed against his side, and stares out with wide eyes at the people they pass in the city and, as it fades under their tires, the packed dirt of the outskirt roads. The entire car respects the few of them who decide to sleep a little longer and stays silent for the first hour and a half. The silence hangs on even after they all wake and the sun sits comfortably in the sky.

Moses keeps looking at the car full of people proudly in the rearview mirror; like he could drive the roads with his eyes closed. 

“Hey Moses,” Pete doesn’t take his eyes off the scenery. “Do you think they’ll want us to be there?”

Moses clears his throat and speaks clearly with a syrupy accent.

“I think you will find that they will be very glad to see you, indeed.” Satisfied with his answer, Moses drives on. Pete reaches silently for Patrick’s hand and holds on tightly for the rest of the ride.

 

+

 

Patrick stands at the well with ten or so children clinging to him in various ways, tapping his arm to get him to look into their eyes, tugging on his clothes. One little girl, Grace, clambers into Patrick’s arms and grasps onto his neck tightly. His uncertain hand is planted on her bony back, holding her close. One of the oldest boys pumps the lever while another holds the bucket under the spout and all of them are motioning excitedly to the running water. 

Patrick smiles wider and tries to listen to all the scrambled voices as they race to thank him for bringing the water and tell him how it is endless. Pete hangs back from a distance, a boy about twelve hanging at his side, and watches the scene, Joe beside him. The boy taps the sleeve of Pete’s arm and waits for Pete to acknowledge him before pushing at the sleeve to see his tattooed skin better.

Pete crouches down and turns his arm slowly, letting the nameless boy stare, eyes darting along the sleeve’s unfamiliar figures. The boy hesitantly reaches out and runs his fingers over the skin and, upon finding that the designs still have the warmth of flesh, cracks a relieved smile.

“Mzungo! Come here, come see!” Another teenage boy, the son of Moses’ friend in the village, dashes over to Pete and tugs on his other arm. He ends up by Patrick at the water pump and not ten seconds later, one of the children cups some of the water in his hands and flings it onto his neighbor. They all erupt in a shrill and tens of hands reach for the water bucket, the spewing spout, cupped and overflowing onto their simple clothes. 

Joe stays back, watching the water fight intensify, Patrick carrying Grace away from the flinging droplets and Pete taking over the pump for a few moments, laughing with them. A teenage girl approaches silently and the peripheral image of a shadow is what makes Joe jump in his bones for a brief moment. 

“Twelve days ago they built the well,” she offers, grasping her elbow. Joe has seen this body language before and does his best to open his shoulders, soften his features. She’s nervous, speaking to him like this in public.

“Who did?” 

“Mzungos, like you. They dig and dig until they find. Now we are lucky to have the water forever.” 

“What does that mean, that word you said first? Mahz, Mahzun-”

“Mzungo,” she finishes for him and gestures at the air in front of Joe’s body. She points to his hand and he raises it for her, offering it palm-down. She levels her own dark hand with Joe’s, letting the contrast speak for itself. 

“White,” the word comes to her, “Muzungo.” She repeats it with a finality that makes Joe feel as if the word isn’t something so scary or threatening, if her smile is any indication.

Joe asks for her name and she turns her eyes downward and answers “Kione.” 

“Well Kione, may I take your picture?” Joe motions towards the digital camera in his other hand, offering it for her to see. Kione leans forward, touching at the silver casing.

“Just me?” She touches at her ears, her bandana holding back her hair.

“If that’s all right,” Joe checks. Kione nods and Joe raises the camera. 

(Later on the van ride back to the hotel, Kione’s eyes will peer at him as white as stars in the black sky of her skin from the view screen. The huts in the background will be eerily primary in their colors with fuzzy outlines. The brilliant red print of her bandana and the tiny holes in her collar will be in perfect focus. It will remain one of the best photographs Joe has ever taken.)

Kione takes Joe and the others to the school building they are fortunate to have. An American from a volunteer corps has been living in the village and teaching the children for five months and Pete watches from the back of the packed classroom with Moses and the rest of the group. Occasionally Pete will lean over to Patrick or Andy to make some observation, but Moses’ eyes are peeled, eagerly focusing on the teacher’s lesson on compound sentences. 

The classroom switches over to music at the end of the lesson and Grace drags Patrick to the front of the classroom where she is allowed to be one of the leading singers. A boy gives Patrick a drum and pulls him down to sit beside him. The classroom buzzes with delight as Patrick agrees and calls for Andy to come up too. Andy is equipped similarly (the children all are fascinated by his red hair and the eye glasses he has) and sits beside Patrick, waiting for one of the others to begin the song.

Pete watches from the back as the song begins and the whole room sings along. Joe turns the camera on video mode and Pete is content to let his smile crack and watch Patrick and Andy pick up the rhythm. 

The day goes by in a whir, all of the boys talking to everyone they can about anything. Pete gets the e-mail address of the teacher, who is almost embarrassed to recognize them from the band. Joe takes more pictures – the kids love it, crowding in front of the camera’s lens whenever it pops outward as Joe turns it on – and Andy asks a lot of questions of the older women, wanting to know how they do everything and go about daily life. Patrick finds it especially funny that all the young children flock to him, touching his soft belly and seeming delighted if not slightly envious of his wealth in such ways. He feels guilty but he keeps hearing the word “lucky” in his head. And it rings louder than guilt.

After they pose for a huge picture in front of the hut (photo taken by Moses), Moses tells them they need to leave in order to get back before dark.

It takes all but restraint for Kioni to pull Grace from Patrick. Patrick is quiet through the whole ordeal, telling Grace to be a good girl and listen to Kioni. The whole village waves goodbye to the minibus as it starts up. Joe takes a picture from the open window, everyone waving and smiling. Some of the boys run down the pathway alongside the minibus, keeping up and finally tiring out, waving as the tall grass accumulates around them. 

Pete watches from the window and gropes for Patrick’s hand; but for naught, because Patrick’s is already out searching for his.

 

+

 

They are quiet when Pete closes and deadbolts the hotel door behind him and Patrick. Patrick goes immediately to the desk and rouses his phone. He doesn’t respond to anything anyway, unzipping his hoodie and tossing it to his suitcase area. 

Pete showers first and waits for Patrick in the bed while Patrick takes his turn. Pete puts down his magazine when Patrick crawls in and curls around him. Pete takes a deep breath and considers the weight of what he’s about to say before he says it. He discards the turmoil and decides he wants Patrick to know.

“Moses told me that Grace and Kioni are sisters. They-” he has to stop himself from jumbling the words together.

“They ran from the rebels, up north. Moses said they saw their parents die and they ran. They were lucky to find a village that would take them in. Grace, she, her parents.” Patrick goes serenely still and Pete tightens his grip around Patrick’s chest.

And then Patrick starts to cry. Thick, solid, quiet tears. 

“The adoption policy here, you have to live here for three years before,” Pete stops and restarts, letting his own tears fall, “if we could, Patrick. You know that if we could we would.”

Patrick nods and swipes at his eyes, guiding the tears to seep into the cotton of Pete’s tee shirt. Pete curls into Patrick further. They fall asleep that way. 

 

+

 

Camping on the wildlife reserve is nothing short of amazing. That evening they watch a herd of elephants travel onward with the setting sun as their backdrop. It’s nearly too good to be true and Pete wants to bottle up that night—the smell of the fire, the sinking cold as the dark surrounds them, the easy supper conversation amongst their group, the soft hum of Patrick singing beside him, the warmth of his jacket – and take it with him forever. He does the next best thing and spills his mind into his quickly filling travel journal, penning a wispy line drawing of a giraffe standing beside an inky Boabab tree.

 

+

 

The hardest excursion is when they head farther north into the displacement camp. They meet more people from the organization and wander around the area before the kids start coming in for the night. It doesn’t help that the sky is overcast and the children that are around don’t seem to want to talk much. They seem more cautious, wary of Pete and the others getting things together for them. 

But Pete has since noticed that the smiles in Uganda are brighter and once the children realize that they have friendly visitors, they are more willing to react to them. Pete joins in on a game of soccer and the children are animated and everyone laughs more than the other expected.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, Pete stalks around the space. He sees some of the women making the bracelets for Invisible Children and gets a weird twisting in his stomach. Maybe it’s because he can’t guarantee the safety of these people in the morning. The instability of their daily lives, not knowing if the same aid will be there for them the next morning, frightens him. Moses takes them back to the hotel before the dark falls, just to be safe.

 

+

 

Pete adjusts the air vent above his head, the rest of the cabin asleep or pretending to be. Joe is watching the personal television in the headrest of the seat in front of him, bright glow casting on his face as his eyes shut slowly and his head drifts forward. He catches himself and rights his neck, but his eyes fall shut again. Pete turns his attention to Patrick next to him, hat pulled down his forehead and over his eyes. Stupid kid can fall asleep anywhere.

Pete runs his fingers across the bracelet around his wrist. Moses gave each of them one last night at their farewell dinner. Tiny braids, one strand a brilliant red, woven into a bracelet. Pete lifts the blanket and finds Patrick’s hand, sees that he’s wearing his bracelet too, and smiles to himself. On the other side of the aisle, the television in front of Joe turns a brilliant shade of blue, and he finds himself asleep but sheathed in the glow.

 

  
[you can, too.](http://www.invisiblechildren.com/home.php)


End file.
